By | 1 July 1998

Wrapped in a heavy overcoat
of herringbone tweed, as if
freezing, he became a recluse.

He had forsaken painting
for drawing and was busy
filling sketchbooks in preparation.

Portrayal of the whores
caused him anguish.
The artist did everything

possible to give his image
the smell of cordite.
The charms of the horrible

intoxicated him. The menace
of his face derived, it seems,
from silent movies.

The strong gaze he turns
on us from his photographs
seduces, possesses and tries to shock.

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